


Piano Sounds

by Aequoria



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, PWP, Prostitution, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2012-04-17
Packaged: 2017-11-03 20:16:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aequoria/pseuds/Aequoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An empty hotel ballroom, a piano, and a business proposition. John Egbert doesn't kiss on the mouth, but Karkat can't help but want to get closer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Piano Sounds

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah so um haha this is the Pretty Woman-based fic that I was thinking of writing. The idea never left my head so here you go, my second completed smutfic in the entire world. Hopefully it's not too terrible, ahaha! *sobs pitifully*
> 
> Basically for those of you who don't know the story of Pretty Woman, this super rich businessman needs an escort to some events after being dumped by his girlfriend so he hires this hooker he meets on the street to accompany him for a week to all the events. This is based on, obviously, the piano scene. xD

You play the piano beautifully.

This is what everyone says, what everyone believes you want to hear, but the truth is you can't stand the instrument. You play it to release tension; there is something undeniably soothing about running your fingers across the familiar keys and coaxing melodies out of the wood and string, but though you appreciate this, it is not a part of you. There are a great many things that you are skilled at that you don't love.

From the corner of your eye you can see John, swathed in the white hotel-issue bathrobe, trying to slip quietly into the room. You hold back a snort of amusement; he could never be quiet, no matter what. It is in his nature to be loud and shameless.

You end the piece as he stands behind you, and it earns a smattering of applause from the few lingering hotel staff.

"Leave us," you say to them, and they shuffle off, silent and efficient as always.

"I didn't know you played," John says as the last one shuts the door behind him.

You shrug, turning slightly to face him as he leans on the side of the piano. "I only play for strangers."

He chuckles a little, looking down and running his hands along the keys. "I used to play, you know. Not anymore, obviously, can't afford to have something like this. No space, you know. And it's a hell of a lot of money."

You hate it when he does this, when he reminds you exactly what your positions are. It's ridiculous how often you forget, how seamlessly John fit himself into your life for the tiny sum of three thousand dollars, despite all his fidgeting and classic inelegance. You fought tooth and fucking nail to get to where you are, obscenely rich and influential- he's working harder than you and all he'll ever show for it is another notch on his bedpost and a few dollars stuffed down the side of his boots. You'd buy him a fucking concert grand if you didn't think he'd be offended. "Play for me then," you order him, standing up and moving so he could take a seat.

"Hell yeah!" he grins, almost jumping into the seat with his enthusiasm. But the hands he raises to the keys are steady, fingers resting still and quiet on the ivory, so unlike the rest of him. Then he begins.

The tune he makes is sweet and simple, as if he is learning what to say after meeting a long lost friend. But gradually, his fingers move faster and faster, weaving a complex melody that hangs in the air almost tangibly. The notes come rapidly, like machine gun fire, but somehow it is a mournful tune. Nostalgic. Like something has been lost.

You can't stand much more of this, and you trail your fingers along his shoulder, making him jump and twist around to face you.

"Was that any good?" he asks, smile back in place.

"It was completely shit and you should be banned from ever coming near a piano," you reply, ducking down and burying your face in the gathered folds of the robe around his waist, and he laughs and laughs and laughs, recognising the insult for what it is.

He runs his fingers through your hair, thumbing absently at the base of your horns, and you can tell by his voice that he's still smiling. "There's a word for someone like you. Can't remember it though. I have a friend who loves all this psychology stuff, I should introduce you sometime."

In response, you growl against the softness of the robe, and he's been around enough trolls to know when to shut up. You inhale the scent of him, deceptively clean and smelling faintly of strawberries and champagne, as his hands still their movement on your head. He knows what you want.

There is nothing slow or reverent about the way you slide open his bathrobe to reveal him. Underneath he is still dressed in the stylish grey and black shirt he had bought with your money, but he has removed the trousers, either for comfort or seduction, you aren't sure. The hem sits high on his smooth white thighs, keeping him only barely decent. You grasp him by the hips and lift him to sit on the closed lid of the piano, stray notes escaping into the air as his legs hit the keys. You lean up to kiss his unsmiling mouth, but he ducks away, teasing you with his proximity. You try again, and he puts his lips to your neck instead, licking and scraping with his teeth at just the right pressure to make you shiver and remember. John Egbert is a whore. He sells his sex for money and doesn't kiss on the mouth. But arousal is more powerful than guilt, and when he lies back to spread himself invitingly across the piano, you cannot help yourself.

You pull him closer and hiss when his hips touch yours, his legs spread around your waist. He has his arms splayed wide on either side of him, head lolling back and eyes closed in practiced relaxation, and his entire body is an invitation. You run a hand along him- from his collar to his navel, smoothing over the textured fabric and revelling in the way his back arches to follow your touch like a wanton lover. 

"Left pocket," he sighs, and inside the body-warmed robe pocket you find a square foil packet and a small tube of lubricant. It always pays to be prepared in his business.

His body doesn't fight as you ready him for the act to come. He is loose-limbed and relaxed and doesn't stop the expressions of pleasure that flit across his face and escape from his lips. You can't tell whether they are real or faked, but you savour every hitched breath and whimper like they are made just for you. 

When you draw your fingers out they are slick and turned cold from the absence of his welcoming heat. You imagine what it would be like if someone found you here, half-dressed and bent over John. John with his legs spread around you, his underwear hanging off his right ankle, shirt still buttoned and pushed up to expose his stomach, eyes closed and skin flushed with want. The danger of it makes your heart race.

Moving your wet hand up to hold his hips in place, you position yourself and slide inside him. He is stretched and accommodating, but not loose around you; you bite back your own sounds of pleasure and breathe heavily through your nose. He feels divine, hot and relaxed and slicked up only for you tonight.

The piano notes surround you, ugly in their tunelessness as his heels drum against the ivory keys. You fuck into him rhythmically, letting the pleasure wash over you in a slow thrum. The noises are loud and echoing in the empty ballroom- chaotic melodies, the slap of flesh, the squeak of the instrument as the motions of your thrusting move it inch by inch across the floor. The dirty, lustful moans spilling from his mouth. You watch his throat flex to make the sounds and you lean over, kissing at the hollow, the suprasternal notch, and feel the vibrations move through your tongue and teeth.

"Karkat," he breathes, and it feels and sounds positively filthy.

You growl against his throat and move down, scraping your teeth lightly down his chest to make him gasp. He arches his back and clutches at your hair, pulling you closer. He is everywhere, wrapped around you, wrapped up in you, his sounds filling your ears and his skin-salt taste filling your mouth. This will not last long.

You reach your hand down to palm at his length, unwilling to be the first to let go, and his moan sounds like a dying man's. Your fingers curl around it and pump quickly, synchronising with the movements of your hips and making him bite down hard on his own mouth to keep in his pleasure. Blood wells up mutant-red beneath the unbroken skin of his lips. You look at him, beautiful in his flaws- not hiding behind his blond wig and contact lenses, away from the tight blue shorts and absurd candy-striped socks that you had first seen him in. Underneath you he wears his hair black and smile wide to show off his imperfect, overlarge teeth. Heat and sweat are misting up his glasses, almost obscuring the eyes you know are screwed shut from the sensations. 

His nails dig into your scalp, hard enough to hurt. "Shit, Karkat- I-"

"Just fucking do it already," you snarl in impatience, jerking your hand faster. The piano makes a chaotic, echoing noise as he plants his feet firmly on the keys and bucks his hips wildly into your fist. His sharp, gasping moans come unrestrained, and he is holding you so close you can feel every shuddering breath.

You move your other hand back to grab at his ass, holding him steady as you thrust into him. You scratch him with your claws- lightly, so _carefully_ \- not enough to draw blood, but enough to make him shiver, and surprisingly this is what pushes him over the edge. He comes with a shout muffled by the arm he throws reflexively over his mouth, releasing all over himself in strange, sticky white.

You keep fucking into him, even as his arm goes limp and slips from your neck to land with a thud on the piano lid. Your fingers, damp from his orgasm, slide to his hip again, your thumb smoothing over his soft fragile skin. His noises have died down to intermittent whines at the overstimulation. He is so fucking gorgeous like this, spread out with his legs wide and trembling around you, face slack and open with bliss. You feel your own orgasm building up inside you, the pleasure shooting up your body like electric shocks from your cock to your brain. You pin him down with a wicked grin and thrust harder, faster, revelling in the small whimpers he gives you like an offering.

All too soon, you are coming with a snarl you bury in the skin of his neck, pressing your hips roughly forward as your vision goes white. There is nothing in this room but the feeling of his tight, slick warmth and the shudders that wrack your body as you ride out your orgasm, red genetic material spilling from you and into him.

When the pleasure dies down, you slowly become aware of your surroundings again, the squeak of the wood and metal hinges and your echoing breaths still filling the empty ballroom. You both stay there for a few moments, panting lowly. You spare a second to feel sorry for the poor sod who has to clean the room tomorrow morning, but you can't bring yourself to regret it. Not while basking in the afterglow of what was, all pretenses and euphemisms aside, mind-blowingly glorious sex with John Egbert.

"Huh," he says after a while. "No one's ever bothered to make me come first."

You snort and gently extract yourself from the tangle of limbs you've both become. "Somehow that doesn't surprise me."

He expertly removes the condom, ties it up and stuffs it into the pocket of his robe to throw away later, barely making a face at the action. "Wow, that actually kind of tired me out!" He grins sleepily at you. "Come on, let's go back upstairs! They've got like _tons_ of movies on the hotel's pay-per-view and I swear I'm going to punch you in the face if you don't let me watch National Treasure!"

"Whatever, just don't fall asleep in the middle and waste my money." You make a series of irritated clicks at him and he laughs, ruffling your hair.

"Trolls are so cute."

"Fuck off. We're a proud, vicious species and if your puny little human mind can't recognise that then you must be even more of a blithering idiot than your perpetually bewildered-looking face would suggest."

He only laughs harder, but obediently removes his hand from your hair and ties the bathrobe on properly, hopping gracefully off the piano. "Whatever you say, Karkat! Let's see if we can't slip past the elevator guy this time."

You know you can never dodge the ever-present, shit-for-brains button pusher who takes you up to your penthouse suite, but it's worth it to see the way John confidently interacts with him and the rest of the hotel staff. It's ridiculous how infectious his friendliness is, how he can lift spirits just by being in the same room. How, despite the flashes of sadness in his eyes and the hell you know he's been through, he's come out of it a stronger person than you could ever be. Three thousand dollars for a week of having some eye-candy on your arm was a total bargain for his company.

If you're being honest with yourself, you never want this week to end.

If you're being _entirely_ honest with yourself, you might even believe you're starting to catch the human disease called love.


End file.
